


13 years

by Dhdhhdgsgs



Category: Death Note
Genre: M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-05 05:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5362706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dhdhhdgsgs/pseuds/Dhdhhdgsgs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They met in 2001, and Matt hasn't stopped thinking about him since.</p>
            </blockquote>





	13 years

2001

The new boy is scary. While his hair is all pretty and silky and his cheeks are round and well fed his eyes are piercing, like blue daggers hiding behind straight bangs. 

His words are harsh, foreign. Matt is fluent but the way he spits them makes it hard to think back a response other than "Entschuldigung" 

"Will you show Mello around, Matt?" Asks Roger, from behind his desk.

2002 

When Mello takes his placement test he gets second, which knocks Matt down to third. He doesn’t want to be upset, because he has no desire to be L, anyways. But, he’s always been so smart effortlessly, and now, he’d have to try. Suddenly, it’s not so magical anymore.

Mello prays every night. He’ll get on his knees, collect his rosary between his fingers and press his forehead into his bed. His hair falls around his jaw in strokes of blonde and his shirt wrinkles around his waist. He whispers in his native tongue and squeezes his eyes tight together. Matt doesn’t try to listen, because it’s none of his business but every once and awhile he’ll catch, “Himmlisch Vatter, bitte machen mich besser.” And wonder what’s wrong with him.

Is he sick?

 

2003 

“Do you think L will catch Kira?” Matt asks, lying on his back atop Mello’s bed, nose buried in his D.S. 

“Of course,” Mello says, all too fast. His words are so harsh with his accent and his tongue is so quick with his meanness. “You’re so stupid.”

“What if he kills him first?” Mario blinks across his tiny screen, Matt pressing his thumb to buttons with vigor.

Mello sits up suddenly, then, eyebrows knit together until they draw a line down a center of his forehead and wrinkles bunch around the corners of his nose, “He won’t.”

2004

One night, when it’s quiet except for the sound of Mello’s breathing and the hum of white noise, Matt asks about his parents. 

He asks, “Do you think you’ll ever see them again?”

He can hear Mello open his mouth, draw in a breath, think about saying something, but nothing ever comes. Nothing until a simple, “No. Never.”

Matt waits for Mello to ask him back, because his parents never leave him alone, they gnaw at the insides of his stomach and speak in hushed tones when he tries to sleep. They’re his secret, just like the others he hides away in the furthest, darkest corners of his mind.

Mello doesn’t ask.

2005 

Matt likes to sneak out of his window and smoke on the roof, when it’s cold down to his bones. Then, it’s all he can think about, the cold and the burning in his throat. He lets his hair hang in his eyes and his nose go red as his toes curl inside his boots. Being around Mello so much is overwhelming, with his sharp tongue and outspokenness and his temper tantrums. The doctors say he’s got bipolar and borderline, but Matt just thinks he’s got too much built up anger from whatever happened with his parents. 

And yet, he doesn’t want Mello to leave, ever, ever, ever. Mello is his best friend, the only one he talks to, the only one he trusts. The one he wants by his side forever.

Sometimes, Mello talks about girls and it’s like he’s reaching inside Matt’s chest and squeezing his heart.

2006

 

“Thanks for putting up with me.” Mello says, with his head on Matt’s shoulder and his hair spilling like blonde water. Matt looks down to see pale eyelashes and blue eyes and a sharp mouth. 

“Yeah, ‘course, mate.”

“I know I suck,” He says, “And yet, here you are.”

“‘Cause I wanna be.”

Mello chuckles a little bit at that, picking at his fingernails, “You’re full of scheisse.” 

 

2007

Mello is gone. That’s all, there’s nothing else. No note, no apology. No goodbye. No, “Thanks for being my friend but I’m gonna leave now.” Nothing. He might as well have never existed. Each drawer of his dresser is empty, his toothbrush is missing from the cup besides their sink, his mess of homework isn’t scattered across his desk. Gone forever. 

Matt cries that night, back against his headboard and knots crawling up his throat. He smokes and puts the buds out on his wrists until his skin smells like smoke. Until it doesn’t smell like Mello anymore.

2008

Technically, Matt is number one. Since both Near and Mello are gone, he was bumped up. Rankings don’t really matter anymore, because L is dead and whoever is pretending to be him now never even set foot in Wammy’s.

There’s a new girl, who may be Matt’s girlfriend. She’s number five, with dark hair and gold skin and marble black eyes behind red-rimmed glasses. She wears ripped jeans and video game T shirts, dirty sneakers and chipped blue nail polish. Hemel, she calls herself. She’s Dutch. Hemel is Dutch for sky.

She leans in to kiss him, once, as they’re sitting on the roof and watching the sun dip into the water. Her lips are slick with thick lip gloss and awkward against Matt’s. Her hands and fingers are pressed into his neck, caressing.

Matt kisses her back, because how bad can it be? To be with a girl? Until she lets out something like a moan and he pushes her away.

“What?” She asks, breathily. Her hair falls around her shoulders messily, her eyes shining in the setting sun.

“Sorry, Hem’.” Matt wipes his mouth, “I tried, but I’m still a queer.”

2009

Matt leaves with nothing but a backpack full of clothes, a wad of cash, his lighter and cigarettes, and an extra pair of boots. He kisses Hemel goodbye on both of her cheeks, and says he’ll come back for her graduation. He’s always been a good liar.  
It’s early in the morning when Matt arrives in L.A. The sky is a murky grey, dotted by flying birds and powerlines. The breeze chaps his lips and reddens his nose, freezes his hands where they’re stuffed inside his jacket pockets. He walks while looking down at his phone, reading directions that lead him towards the warehouse Mello blew up. Then he doesn’t have to look because the smell of smoke grows so strong and he just follows that. 

Worry takes hold of him, because what if Mello’s nothing but a burnt up corpse? What if he gets there, and Mello is lying there with his eyes wide and lifeless? Worse-what if he’s alive, and doesn’t remember? If he sees Matt and has no idea who he is?

Part of the warehouse is still burning, flames licking at the debris, smoke coiling into the air. He pushes past a broken door and kicks away unfamiliar bodies, free hand covering his nose, blocking out the stench. His vision blurs as his eyes water, world tinted orange behind his goggles.

There’s a flash of blonde hair, and a rosary spilling across the blood stained floor. When he gets closer, he sees the burnt flesh crawling across Mello’s face. His lips are agape, tinged with blood, eyelashes fluttering as his eyes dancing behind bruised eyelids. 

When Matt slowly unwraps the gauze from Mello’s face, weeks later, fingertips ghosting over scarred skin, watching his eyes flutter open and his nostrils flare with each quick breath, he says, “You know, I thought I’d never see you again.”

Mello moistens his lips, wet tongue peeking over dry lips, eyelids heavy. 

“It’s okay, don’t say anything.” Matt whispers, “Just--before you run off again, I need you to know something.” He leans over to discard the bloody bandages, before staring down at Mello’s destroyed face, “I’m totally fucking in love with you.” 

Mello takes a breath, before reaching up and fitting his open palm against Matt’s cheek, pulling him down. Matt breaths him in, nose pressed to cheek, and kisses him, deeply, like he never thought he would.

 

2010

Mello refused to go to a doctor, so he’s left with with a knotted scar spreading down his entire left side. It takes half of his face, sculpting his cheekbone and narrowing his eye, thickening his lips. His hair grows back in ragged strands, brushing his shoulders. He wears tight leather and carries a pistol on his belt. He’s not pretty-like he used to be. He’s badass and two-faced and the ex-leader of the L.A mafia and he drives Matt crazy. 

He’s nestled in the crook of Matt’s arm, hair spilling across his shoulder and running his thumb over the fullness of Matt’s palm.

“Sorry for leaving like I did. Dick move.”

Matt scoffs, “Yeah, dick move. I had no one, Mells. Not until Hemel.”

“Who?”

 

“My girlfriend, I think.”

Mello smirks, “That’s a laugh.”

2011

Mello still gets temper tantrums. They might even be worse, now, because he doesn’t take his pills. He’ll shout, curl his fingers into the collar of Matt’s shirt, get right in his face. But, he hardly hits him. He’ll be right about to, and then lower his fist and march away exasperatedly. He’ll leave, slam the door behind him and not return for a few hours. 

“Are you even Catholic anymore?” Matt’s smoking, since he always smokes, nowadays.

Mello crinkles his nose and snarls, showing off rows of perfect teeth, “Fuck you, of course I am.”

“I dunno, Mells.” He leans over himself to put out his butt, “You sure don’t act like it.”

Mello hits him then, spits in his face, too. Doesn’t come back for an entire day. 

2012

“What’s your name?” Mello asks, one night, when Matt has his head pressed into the curve of his chest so he hears his heartbeat thrum in his ear. 

“Mail,” He answers, too quickly, because by now, what’s the point being secretive? “Jeevas.”

“Mail? What the fuck?” 

“What’s your’s?”

“Mihael...Keehl.” 

“And my name is stupid?” Matt raises his head, grinning until his dimples mark themselves in the apples of his cheeks. Mello flicks red hair from Matt’s forehead and dances his fingertips over the bridge of his nose.

Then, he asks, “What do you think life would be like if we weren’t geniuses?”

Matt doesn’t respond, silence hanging thickly in air, swimming around his head in lazy circles, “You really wanna know?”

“Hit me.”

“My dad beat the shit out of me. Wouldn’t touch my mum or sisters, though, since they were girls. Well, for the most part. Then he raped my oldest sister and I blew a hole in his forehead. I ran, so my mum would think whoever killed him got me too. Lived on the streets ‘til some guys from Wammy found me. So, I mean, if I hadn't qualified I'd probably be some homeless bum, y’know?”

“...Fuck, Matt.”

“Yeah, I know. Now you have to tell me somethin’ about you.”

 

2013

“Don’t fuck this up, Matt, I swear to God.” Mello warns, wagging a gloved finger in front of Matt’s face. 

“Yeah, yeah.” He sighs, before grabbing his gloves off the table and fastening his goggles.

“See ya, babe.”

(He doesn’t)

2014 

They're buried at Wammy’s, next to each other. Their epitaphs read this--

Number two and Number three  
Best of friends, even beyond the grave.  
Besten Freunde, auch jenseits des Grabes.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> Entschuldigung--Sorry
> 
> Himmlisch Vatter, bitte machen mich besser--Heavenly Father, please make me better
> 
> Scheisse--Shit 
> 
> Because, in my mind, with a last name like Keehl and blonde hair and blue eyes, you just have to be German.


End file.
